


Za Vas Vsyekh (or, The Dangers of Toasting on the Enterprise)

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Drinking & Talking, M/M, Matchmaking, Vodka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-03
Updated: 2009-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:31:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vodka is a sacred thing, and Chekov isn’t about to let his friends remain ignorant of its highly beneficial effects. That goes double for Lieutenant Sulu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Za Vas Vsyekh (or, The Dangers of Toasting on the Enterprise)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://soblazn-chekov.livejournal.com/profile)[**soblazn_chekov**](http://soblazn-chekov.livejournal.com/) prompt “Chekov invites people over, and is horrified to learn they don't know how to properly drink vodka.” Beta'd with love by [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/)

“What are you doing?” Chekov cried in dismay. He snatched the bottle of replicated vodka that Doctor McCoy had poised to pour over a glass of ice. “No no no,” he said vehemently. “This is the wrong way to drink it.”

 

“There is no wrong way to drink alcohol, kid,” McCoy said darkly, and held out his hand for the bottle. Several others, looking on, chuckled. It was a strange party, all the bridge officers together off-duty for once. Scotty had invited them all to sample the various illicit alcohol-like substances he’d either collected or cooked up from a makeshift still pieced together from old warp core parts. Chekov felt honored to be included, but honored or not, he couldn’t stand by and witness such a bad use of vodka.

 

“Captain,” Chekov said urgently. “You are a man of discerning taste. Please tell the doctor that this is not a proper use for vodka.”

 

“I’m with him,” Kirk shrugged. “I’ve never witnessed a use of vodka that wasn’t proper. Unless you count that thing with those Andorean twins…”

 

“Captain, please,” Spock cut in.

 

“Please what? Maybe someone wants to hear the story!” Kirk grinned at Uhura.

 

“Not in the least,” Uhura said coolly.

 

“I think Chekov has a point," Sulu piped up. He’d been fairly quiet all night. Personally, Chekov thought that might be because it was impossible to get a word in edgewise when the captain was taking such pleasure in tormenting his off-duty officers. Whenever Chekov and Sulu spent time together with just the two of them—in the officer’s mess over lunch, keeping each other company in the gym, long quiet stretches at the Conn together—they always found plenty to talk about.

 

Chekov was secretly pleased that Sulu spent so much time with him, though now he was starting to wonder if Sulu preferred the company of others after all: crewmates closer to his own age and rank. Tonight, Sulu had been more relaxed, and laughed much more often than he did when he was alone with Chekov. Then again, Sulu had never swigged down four glasses of Scotty’s home-brewed ale when he was alone with Chekov, either.

 

“Vodka has special cultural significance for the Russians,” Sulu continued earnestly. The effect was only slightly undermined by the way his words slurred precariously. “Respecting Chekov’s views on vodka drinking is a matter of cultural sensitivity.”

 

“Horse shit,” McCoy grumbled.

 

“Lieutenant Sulu makes an excellent point,” Spock said. Chekov thought he might have detected amusement in the Commander’s voice, but it was always difficult to gauge. “The ensign’s cultural norms should be accorded at least as much respect as those of non-Federation civilizations we encounter.”

 

“Well when you put it like that,” Scotty said. “We don’t have much of a choice. So tell us, lad.” He turned to Chekov. “What _is_ the proper way?”

 

Chekov smiled brightly as everyone in the room turned their attention to him. “Not over ice,” he said decisively. “I have proper glasses in my quarters.”

 

And that was how, before Chekov quite knew what was happening, the entire senior bridge crew had followed him back to his quarters for a drink.  
\--

 

Chekov’s quarters seemed cramped with six of his senior officers crowded around the table at the center of the room. Scotty was entertaining them all with a story about trying to replicate hops to brew his own beer on Delta Vega, illustrated by gesticulating with a bottle of scotch he’d refused to leave behind in his own quarters, while Chekov tried to dig out his set of vodka cups from the storage cupboard by the door. He jumped when Sulu appeared beside him.

 

“Need help?”

 

“No—I—No,” Chekov stammered, suddenly flustered by Sulu’s proximity, his inquiring smile, his hand on Chekov’s arm, just where the cuff of his uniform sleeve met the skin of his wrist. “Yes.”

 

Chekov turned back to the cabinet to hide his blush, and his hand closed on one of his set of traditional Russian vodka cups. “Aha!” He pulled out the small, colorfully painted, lacquered wooden cup, and held it up for Sulu’s inspection.

 

“Wow.” Sulu took it from him gently. “This is beautiful. Where’d you get it?”

 

“My mother,” Chekov explained as he unearthed another one of the set and handed it to Sulu. “There is a market she likes at Nizhni Novgorod where they still make some Russian crafts by hand.” Another cup caught on his questing fingers, and he handed it down. “She gave me this set when I graduated. She said she wanted me always to be able to entertain my friends, even on a star ship.”

 

Chekov pulled out a fourth cup and rubbed his finger along the rim idly before handing it over. “I think she knew I had not very many friends at the Academy, and she hoped something different for me when I got my commission.” He handed down two more cups. “But I have never used them.” Of course, Chekov had thought many times about inviting Sulu back to his room for a drink, but it had always seemed impossibly presumptuous.

 

When Chekov turned to hand the last glass to Sulu, he was surprised at his friend’s look of dismay. He replayed his last few statements in his head, and his cheeks heated with embarrassment. “No no,” he said. “Kak menya ne stidna! I did not mean to sound so sad. I only meant that I will be happy to use them because you are here. You all are here,” he amended quickly.

 

Chekov quickly stuck his head into the cabinet, reached to the very back, and came out with two bottles. “Did I mention my mother also gave me these?”

 

McCoy’s voice cut easily through the buzz of conversation. “Is that _real_ vodka?”

 

“Not replicated,” Chekov confirmed. “Russki Standart, made in Saint Petersburg.”

 

“Kid, I like your style,” Mc Coy said.

 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I would cite Starfleet regulation governing the possession and transport of specially regulated--.”

 

Kirk cut him off. “But you’re dying to try authentic vodka, Spock, admit it. It’s all in the name of cultural sensitivity, right?”

 

Spock straightened his back even more, which Chekov wouldn’t have thought was possible, glanced at Uhura, and then back at Kirk. “You are the _captain_ ,” he said.

 

“Damn right. You pouring, Chekov?”

 

“Yessir.” While Sulu set the cups on the table, Chekov dashed over to the replicator. “Hleba, kolbasa, i solyonaya kapusta,” he told it. The replicator hummed happily. He picked up a plate heaped with the appropriate food, and slid it onto the table.

 

The others leaned forward to peer at it. “That’s like nothing I’ve ever seen come out of a replicator,” Scotty said.

 

“Yes,” Chekov said sheepishly. “Well, I modify a little. From time to time. The cafeteria staff at the Academy said I was too skinny. One woman showed me how to program replicators to make food I missed from home.”

 

“You can modify replicator programming?” Kirk asked incredulously.

 

“Yes I can.”

 

“Fascinating,” said Spock.

 

“No offense meant,” Scotty broke in, “But I’m not sure I like the look of your modifications.”

 

“Says the man whose country came up with haggis,” said Sulu.

 

“What is this, anyway?” Uhura asked.

 

Chekov pointed. “Black bread, meat, and pickled cabbage. In my country it is very bad manners to drink without food. Or without toasting. I will show you.” He squeezed in at the table between Scotty and Spock, since it was the only place there was room. “It goes toast, breathe, drink, eat.”

 

“This sounds complicated,” Kirk griped.

 

“You have mastered with little difficulty many alien mating rituals much more complex than this,” Spock said.

 

“What? I--?” Kirk sputtered.

 

“Spock, from time to time you are a useful bastard,” McCoy said genially.

 

“Okay, so,” Chekov said, picking up his glass. “The toast.” Each of the others grabbed a glass and held it aloft. “To all the crew and officers of the Enterprise, who work very hard, and deserve once in a while to relax.”

 

“Here here,” crowed Kirk.

 

“Then you take a bit of cabbage in your hand, to eat after you drink.” Chekov grabbed a pinch of cabbage from the plate, and the others did likewise with varying degrees of reluctance. “Then you breathe out against your hand, take the vodka all at once—no sipping, doctor—and then you eat your cabbage. Okay?”

 

“And this is the _right_ way to drink vodka?” McCoy asked skeptically.

 

“The very best way,” Chekov assured him. “Davai!” He lifted his cup in front of his face, huffed out his breath against the skin of his wrist, and tossed back his shot. When he slammed down his cup, the others looked at him hesitantly.

 

At last, Sulu said, “Okay,” raised his glass, breathed out, and downed his drink. Everyone else followed suit, and soon they were all munching appreciatively on their cabbage.

 

Kirk said, “Ensign Chekov, you make a strong case for your culture.”

 

“Thank you, captain.” Chekov was already pouring another round.  
\--

 

“And the way she moves,” Kirk slurred. “The way she can just slip in and out so smoothly you hardly know she was there at all.” Kirk stared out across the table, misty-eyed. What had started out as a toast to the Enterprise had become more confused and absurd the longer the captain went on. “And my chair. I really like my chair. It’s a good chair. Like the time last week--.”

 

“To the Enterprise,” McCoy bellowed. The whole company raised the cups and drank gratefully.

 

“Pavel,” Sulu prompted. “You haven’t done one in a while. Why don’t you toast?”

 

Chekov shook his head, and he thought he could hear it sloshing. “That is bad idea. It seems when I am drinking, my Federations Standard English is not so standard.”

 

“Toast in Russian, then,” Scotty said. He raised his bottle of scotch, to which he had returned sometime after the fifth round of shots. “The way God intended.”

 

There was something strange about that logic, but Chekov was having trouble making his brain work. He raised a full cup, and switched to Russian. “To Commander Spock.” He inclined the cup to the Vulcan on his left. “You are very confident in how you speak and act, and your eyebrows are always accurate.” Toasting _was_ easier in Russian. The language rolled off his tongue naturally, and the words meant precisely what he wanted them to. He turned to the right. “To Lieutenant Commander Scott, a very smart man and a very good drinker.” He raised his glass to the next around the circle. “To Captain Kirk, who is very brave and very strong. I hope I can be as good as you one day. To Doctor McCoy. You are a kind man, even though you act very rough so we will not suspect this. You take very good care of all of us.”

 

It was liberating to speak his true impressions to friends who couldn’t understand his native language. Chekov found he was really enjoying himself. “To Hikaru… Hikaru.” Sulu beamed across the table at him, and Chekov raised his glass and tried again. “Sometimes I look at you when we are on the bridge together and all I can think of is kissing you. When you’re thinking hard, you get a wrinkle in between your eyes, and I want to hold your face in my hands and kiss you until you stop worrying.” He made a vague gesture at Sulu’s face, and Sulu kept smiling, oblivious. “But I could never tell you these things, so I am sorry for being a coward.”

 

Chekov raised his drink to the last person in the circle. “Lieutenant Uhura.” He felt the drunken flush drain from his cheeks, leaving him pale and stammering. He’d forgotten she was here. “Lieutenant,” he said weakly.

 

Uhura looked almost as surprised as Chekov felt, but she raised her own cup and spoke in Russian, “Za silnuyu druzhbu, i za lubov.” _To strong friendship, and to love._

 

“Za lubov,” Chekov said miserably. He raised his glass high before slugging it back. The other officers did likewise, following the prescribed ritual.

 

“Well,” Uhura said. “It’s getting late.”

 

“No, it’s…” Kirk squinted at her. “Wait. Don’t we have some sort of mission in the morning?”

 

“Yeah,” McCoy grumbled. “And I’m not prescribing you hangover medicine if you keep trying to go shot for shot with a certain whiz kid with freakishly fast metabolism.”

 

“You’re no fun,” Kirk complained.

 

As they prepared to leave, still bickering, Chekov heard Uhura whispering something to Spock. It wasn’t English: Vulcan, maybe? When Uhura turned around, she knocked over the remaining half-full bottle of scotch that Scotty had been nursing, dumping its contents directly into the lap of Sulu, who was still sitting at the table.

 

“What the--!” Sulu jumped up and backed away from the table, trying vainly to brush off the alcohol rapidly soaking into his uniform pants.

 

“Oops,” Uhura said nonchalantly.

 

“My scotch,” Scotty moaned.

 

“Come on,” McCoy said, throwing an arm around the engineer and steering him toward the door. “We’ll find some more.”

 

Chekov saw Uhura jab Spock in the ribs with her elbow. He looked pained.

 

“Lieutenant Sulu,” Spock began. “It is inappropriate for a bridge officer to appear at large on the ship smelling like a distillery. I would advise you to change your uniform before returning to your quarters.”

 

“Change my…?” Sulu looked up from trying to towel off his crotch with the sleeve of his shirt.

 

Uhura was suddenly beside Chekov, shoving her sharp elbow into _his_ ribs.

 

“Eh? Oh,” Chekov said as he struggled to put his thoughts together under Uhura’s piercing gaze. He turned to Sulu and blurted, “I may have something you could wear.”

 

“We’ll see you later, then,” Uhura announced. She stepped toward the door, and Spock followed smartly in her wake. “Ne pukha ne pera,” she whispered to Chekov. _Happy hunting._

 

“K’chortu,” he replied gratefully.

 

Beside the door, Kirk stood with a puzzled frown on his face and began waving a finger suspiciously at Chekov. “Wait a minute…”

 

But Spock caught his elbow without breaking stride and dragged him out into the hall. The door slid closed behind them, leaving Chekov alone with a slightly damp, moderately confused Sulu.

 

“So…” Sulu gave up on trying to pat dry his scotch-stained pants. “Lost cause, I guess. You said you had--?”

 

“Yes, of course.” Chekov dashed over to open one of the drawers recessed into the wall by the bed and pawed through it in search of a spare uniform. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering, really. He wanted Sulu to take his clothes _off_ , not put more _on_. However, he was at a loss as to how to make that happen, so he snatched up a clean uniform and brought it over to Sulu. “Here you are.”

 

Sulu took it, but looked doubtfully from Chekov to the uniform and back again. “Uh… Chekov. Pavel. I don’t think this is going to fit.”

 

Vodka-soaked as it was, Chekov’s brain still had a touch of genius in it. “It will fit,” he said, mustering the appearance of offense. “You think I’m too skinny? That I have the body of a fifteen-year-old?”

 

Sulu made a distressed gurgling noise and stepped back a pace. “No,” he said hastily. “I’m just not sure--.”

 

“Bet me,” Chekov said eagerly. “You think they will not fit, we will make a bet.”

 

Sulu laughed, and pointed a warning finger in Chekov’s face. “You’re on.”

 

“Okay.” Chekov raced over to the table and poured two shots from the last, dwindling bottle of vodka. “It is a tradition in Russia to drink to seal a bet between gentlemen.” At this point Chekov was definitely taking liberties with his cultural heritage, but he doubted that Sulu would call him on it.

 

“We are nothing if not gentlemen,” Sulu said slowly. He approached the table with a stride that morphed into a stumble, picked up his glass, and held it aloft. “To pants that will not fit.”

 

“To pants that _will_ fit!”

 

They breathed out against their wrists, threw back their shots, and each grabbed a chunk of black bread from the plate on the table.

 

While he chewed, Sulu looked thoughtful. “Your toast, before. What did you say?”

 

“I… I do not remember,” Chekov lied.

 

“Too bad.” Sulu grabbed another chunk of bread. “It sounded beautiful. I like it when you speak Russian.”

 

“You do?” Chekov’s heart fluttered, as excited as a child.

 

“Your whole face lights up, you get more expressive…” Sulu trailed off, and hastily shoved the rest of his piece of bread into his mouth. By the time he’d swallowed it all, the moment had passed. “So…Where’s your bathroom?”

 

“Sorry?” Chekov had to process that for a minute to figure out that Sulu was asking where he could change. “It is down the hall,” he explained. “I do not have my own. I am only an ensign.”

 

Sulu rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “ _Only_ an ensign. Youngest ensign in the fleet, you mean.”

 

Chekov blushed and looked at the floor. “You can change here, if you want. I will not look. I am nothing if not a gentleman.” He bowed grandly.

 

Sulu chuckled. “Fine then, Ensign Gentleman. I’ll take your word for it.”

 

Chekov turned around and leaned on the wall with his arm across his eyes, like a child playing hide-and-go-seek. His heart was pounding in his chest. He was finally alone with Sulu, and Hikaru was _taking off his clothes_. If Chekov couldn’t make a move tonight, he was never going to be able to do so.

 

Chekov was startled by a strangled yelp and turned just in time to see Sulu crash to the floor. “Hikaru!” He dashed over to where his friend lay sprawled on his back. He was shirtless, and Chekov’s pants, which really _were_ several sizes too small, were caught around Sulu’s hips, where regulation issue black briefs were clearly exposed. The half-on pants did little more than provide a lovely frame for the bulge between Sulu’s thighs.

 

Chekov had trouble dragging his eyes away from the sight. Hastily, he crouched by his  
fallen friend, and before he could think better of it, his hands were on Sulu’s naked chest. “Are you all right?”

 

“Well,” Sulu said. “I think I won the bet.”

 

Chekov couldn’t help but laugh, and that got Sulu laughing, too. His laughter was a beautiful thing, throaty and unguarded, and the firm muscles of his belly shook and rolled with the motion of it. Chekov laughed harder for the sheer delight of having Hikaru Sulu here in his room, half-naked and happy, and his laughter set Sulu laughing harder, too.

 

Before he could lose his nerve, Chekov bent down and kissed Sulu, the motion a natural extension of his joy. Sulu stilled beneath him, laughter freezing in his throat. For a moment, Chekov froze, too, horror creeping up as he realized what he’d done.

 

Then Sulu relaxed under him, his mouth parted welcomingly, and Chekov lunged forward, planting his hands on either side of Sulu and sinking into the kiss as if he wanted to drown there. He finally had to stop to breathe, and he rested his head against Sulu’s shoulder while he nervously gulped in air.

 

Sulu’s hand came to rest on the back of Chekov’s neck. “So, was that my reward for winning the bet?”

 

“Part of it,” Chekov said, raising his head so Sulu could see the hopeful glint in his eye. “I have another reward for you.”

 

Sulu managed to look simultaneously aroused and uncertain. “Pavel… Are you sure this is a good idea?”

 

Chekov pretended to think for a moment. “In my country, they say that vodka makes men wiser. So yes,” he nodded seriously. “This is probably the best idea we have ever had.”

 

“Can’t argue with that,” Sulu said helplessly.

 

Chekov scrambled up to straddle Sulu’s legs. His hands went to the waistband of Sulu’s briefs and stilled there a moment. He wanted to remember this moment. He thought he might hyperventilate from excitement.

 

Sulu had propped himself up on his elbows, and he looked at Chekov uncertainly. “Hey…You don’t have to…”

 

“No no,” Chekov said quickly. “I just wanted to savor… I have wanted to do this for a very long time.”

 

Sulu broke into a giant grin that Chekov could read easily: he’d wanted this, too. Well, God bless Lieutenant Uhura, and God bless vodka.

 

Chekov pulled down Sulu’s briefs as far as the half-on trousers would allow. Sulu’s cock, flushed hard and full, sprang up against his belly. Chekov raised a hand down to stroke his fingers tentatively across it.

 

Sulu bit back a groan, and Chekov looked up eagerly to see that Sulu’s head was thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut. An involuntary shiver shook Chekov down to his toes. _He_ was the one making the usually steady pilot lose control like that, and just from one touch.

 

Chekov slid his fingers down the length of Sulu’s erection, then further down, to where his balls were still trapped in layers of fabric. He wrapped his fingers gently around the sac and noted with satisfaction the hitch in Sulu’s breath. There was something else Chekov wanted to try. He leaned forward and scooted further down Sulu’s body, gasping at the delicious friction of his confined erection against Sulu’s leg. He bent his body further down, positioning himself right in front of Sulu’s bobbing erection, at such an angle as to keep his face in view. He’d never done this before, and he wanted to make sure he was doing it right, making it _good_ for Sulu.

 

Chekov huffed out his breath against the head of Sulu’s cock, just as if he were about to down a shot of vodka, and then dove forward, sucking as much as he was able into his mouth at once.

 

Sulu’s eyes flew open, and his jaw clenched tight. Chekov smiled around the cock in his mouth. He liked the sight of Sulu like that, totally undone. He sucked gently, and ran his tongue around the head of Sulu’s cock. That produced a helpless moan, so he did it again.

 

As much as he wanted to, Chekov knew he didn’t have the skill—yet—to take all of Sulu’s length, so he wrapped a hand around the base and tried to synchronize the rhythm of his strokes with the motion of his mouth.

 

Sulu’s head crept up to tangle in Chekov’s curly hair. “Chekov,” he panted. “Pavel… Pasha… Pash… I’m gonna… I’m gonna…” He tried to tug Chekov off of him, but Chekov stayed where he was, eagerly sucking and watching for the moment—there---when Hikaru’s face went slack with release. Sulu’s hips jerked up, slamming his cock to the back of Chekov’s throat, but Chekov held on, swallowing as fast as he could. He managed to take almost all of the spurts of come spilling down his throat. The excess dripped out the corner of his mouth, and Chekov wiped it away in favor of a giddy grin as he sat up.

 

The sight of Sulu laying boneless and panting beneath him sent Chekov fumbling desperately at the front of his pants. He barely had time to touch himself before orgasm overtook him. His cock jerked in his hand, and semen, thin and white and copious, spilled onto his uniform.

 

When Chekov could see again, he looked down at Sulu, who was looking back at him with an expression of wonder. Sulu held his arms up, and Chekov gratefully sank down into them, sticky but sated.

 

Chekov said nothing for a few moments, content just to be held by Sulu and let their breathing synch. Finally, he asked, “Was I okay?”

 

“See, you said your English goes when you’re drunk.” Sulu rolled them over so he could kneel over Chekov. “Not okay.” He bent down and kissed him, long and slow. “You.” Sulu pressed a quick kiss to Chekov’s forehead. “Are.” Another kiss. “A singularly amazing man.” He levered himself up, stripped off the too-small pants and the hopelessly dirty briefs, and stumbled over to the table.

 

Chekov sat admiring the view of a gloriously naked Sulu-- _his_ gloriously naked Sulu—as he poured the last of the vodka into two cups. He brought them over, handed one to Chekov, and sat down beside him.

 

“Now tell me. What did you say in your toast before?”

 

Chekov smiled. “Za lubov. It means, ‘to love.’”

 

Sulu raised his glass. “Za lubov.”

 

They both breathed out, threw back their cups, and drank to the dregs.  
\--------------------

 

 

 

 

And, for your references, [these](http://www.nestingdolls.net/pics/Khoh856l.jpg) are the cups Chekov's mother bought him.


End file.
